So I am still feeling mostly …. fine.
A few extra tears have crept in though. Not those snot drenched sobs that come from my guts and leave me heaving and shaking, but the silent, delicate raindrops that leak from the corner of my eye as I remember all he was and all I have lost.
I seem to dwell more on the mechanics of how he died at this time of year.
It still kills me that I kissed him goodbye at 7am, just like I did every single day ….. and never saw him again.
It still kills me inside to know that there was nobody there but his workmate (who died shortly afterwards) as his life and consciousness drained away with all that blood.
It still kills me that I didn’t insist on spending time alone with his body before the funeral.
He was so badly hurt that everyone from the policemen who attended the scene to the mortuary assistant were all adamant that I could NOT see him. At all. Not even his hand.
It kills me that I had to tell my very small children that their beloved Daddy had died. I can still remember them looking at me like I must have been playing some sort of mean trick.
It still kills me that instead of feeling the love that I know was being poured on me, I felt hundreds of pairs of eyes boring into my skull as I entered the church at his funeral.
It kills me that I never looked up from the carpet to see the packed church and all the people who loved him. I saw only my children, my family, my best friends, the ministers (there were three of them) and the screen that failed to capture his essence in pictures.
But despite all my regrets, he remains dead.
I don’t get a do-over, nor do I want one.
….and that’s where I am in this part of the death march…..